


Ard Arennon

by KnightRepentant



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Lavellan, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Gen, Qunari, Rift Magic, The Fade, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightRepentant/pseuds/KnightRepentant
Summary: This is a collection of short stories about Inquisitor Arenno Lavellan, a man of bravery, cunning and a short temper.





	Ard Arennon

**'Revelations'**

There was near silence in the main hall of Skyhold. The man once called Blackwall wrenched his sullen gaze from the flagstones to look upon the one who now sat in judgement over him. The Orlesian guards in Val Royeaux had been happy to finally have him in their cells, the common folk had jeered, raged and condemned him as he walked from the gallows to the lock-up. He would’ve endured all of it a hundred times over in place of the Inquisitor’s steel-edged silence.

Arenno’s face was rigid as though it were carved out of marble, frozen in supreme, yet aloof, indignation. However, the false Blackwall could discern hurt, betrayal, shame and sadness seething beneath the mask. Much of Arenno’s anger was directed inwards, and the false Warden understood perfectly the reason why. The Inquisitor had allowed a wanted criminal, a murderer, into his stronghold, fought beside him, admired his morals, and had been none the wiser. To a man who prided himself on always being in the know, Rainier’s deception was the ultimate insult. This was why he sat now, stony-faced, upon his lofty throne, trying to find a way to speak without screaming. Josephine was waiting as well, her quill poised like a dagger, until finally the Inquisitor, and it  _was_ the Inquisitor, not Arenno Lavellan, made to speak,

“So, we come to this. Would that I could say I wasn’t surprised. You know what this, what  _all_ of this,” he gestured to the vaulted ceiling of Skyhold, with its banners and finery, “represents, what we are trying to accomplish. I sought the aid of a Warden, a man of honour and integrity, an ally who would share in our cause, and I thought I’d found it.” The Inquisitor slumped back in his seat, “I was mistaken, it seems.” There was such bitterness in that final remark, that all of the former Blackwall’s rehearsed pleas evaporated,

“Then why did you use your contacts to smuggle me here? The world will know that the Inquisition is corrupt!” The Inquisitor’s face froze in that instant, expressionless, and Rainier feared he had gone too far.

“You possess a great deal of nerve to say that to me here, Captain Rainier, as though you had any form of moral grounds left upon which to stand! I will not suffer your righteous disdain today, but you  _will_ suffer mine.” The Inquisitor rose, then, taking up his bladed staff. Those amber eyes burned like coals, “Your initial crimes alone merit little mercy beyond a swift end, but your deception has insulted this Inquisition and tarnished its exalted cause, and you have made a fool of me for allowing it.” The golden image of Shartan Triumphant atop the Inquisitor’s staff crackled with the green energies of the Fade, magic coalescing with the sound of tearing metal. The nimbus of magic was levelled at the false Blackwall, and behind its glow, those amber eyes blazed still. 

Then, the ring of metal on stone as the Inquisitor slammed the head of his staff into the floor, causing a shower of green sparks,

“I’m giving you to the Wardens. We shall see how readily they welcome you, once Corypheus is defeated.” The Inquisitor motioned to the two soldiers guarding the prisoner, “Unchain him, then get him out of my sight.” Arenno turned away, and returned up the steps to his throne, his face grim but no longer a mask of fury. A nod from Josephine softened it almost to a smile, but the day had been too long for anything more. 

“Send in the next one.”

 

 

**'Demands of the Qun'**

Arenno felt a deep chill as Venatori advanced upon the second hill. He saw the Chargers preparing to fight, heard the Tevinter mages chanting their warspells, looked out at the Qunari dreadnought attempting to sail away from danger, and clenched his fists…

If the dreadnought perished, so too did his alliance with the Qunari, the first of its kind in the history of Thedas. He  _hated_  the Qun with every shred of his being, despised what it did to people in the name of efficiency, despised the choice it had now forced upon him. He would never call them friend, but keeping the Qunari close meant more intelligence, more secrets for Leliana, secrets the Inquisition could use to protect Thedas when they inevitably invaded…

And the Chargers would be the price. He had fought with each of them, drank with Krem in the tavern and laughed at all their tales…

There was a tightness in his chest that threatened to suffocate him, and he dare not look at Bull as he gave the order…

_Mythal forgive me…_

_\--_

When the Qunari woman walked out of the Eluvian, and demanded his death, Arenno felt as though a spike of ice had pierced his chest. He had read Leliana’s reports, of course, but to have it come to this after only two years…His grip tightened on the handle of his staff, the creak of padded leather overwhelmed by the roar of the saarebas. Green flame coursed around the hulking Qunari mage. 

_Rift magic?_

He looked up again at the woman, standing proudly, with certainty,  _Creators, how he hated hearing that word_. His alliance was in tatters, the sacrifice made to attain it was now utterly meaningless, and suddenly Arenno was back on that cliff on the Coast, watching the long-extinct Venatori slaughtering his friends…

Arenno strode forwards, and stopped before the saarebas,

“I know what you are, what was done to you. I cannot hate you. Stand aside, my quarrel is with  _her_.” His barrier sprang up barely in time to deflect a hail of Fade-infused lightning, the saarebas would not be persuaded. “As you wish.” Enhanced by Rift magic it may be, but the saarebas faced a student with five years of training in that school. A bolt of green energy bit deep into grey skin, and the saarebas let out an unearthly howl. The Qunari mage clutched its chest, screaming and screaming as it was ripped into the Fade from the inside. Looking up, Arenno saw fear flicker across the Qunari woman’s face. He bent the Fade around him, and stepped  _through_ , to land directly in front of her. She raised her daggers but he slapped them aside with the base of his staff. Arenno whirled, and the golden figure of Shartan struck her across the face with force enough to knock her to the ground. 

Though much shorter than she, he placed one foot upon her arm and other upon her chest, and levelled the staff at her throat, “ _Did you think it would be that easy?!_ ” Fury sent tremors through his every nerve, brought a shiver to his voice as he fought not to shout, “The nerve, the sheer  _arrogance_ of you people astounds me! The allegiance of the Inquisition is not so lightly cast aside, nor is my ire!” The serene visage of Shartan flared with Fade energies beneath her chin, the air lensing around such a compression of power. “Do not waste your breath threatening me! I know your reasons because I know how your kind thinks!” He stepped back, then. “Take a message back to the Ariqun, let her know that any incursion made by the Qunari upon the mainland will be met by the full might of this Inquisition and its allies! Tell her I will shatter every Eluvian in Thedas before I allow you to ravage our lands again!”

The Qunari staggered towards the mirror, still managing to look defiant,

“The day will come when you will kneel before the Arishok and-”

“GET OUT!!” A wall of air struck her, flinging her through the mirror, which promptly went dark. The dust settled, and Arenno breathed deeply to calm himself. He glowered at the Eluvian, humming peacefully before the sweeping vale, and turned to Cassandra, “Send word to Cullen,” The mark burned on his hand, fiercer than ever before, 

“I want it buried, like the rest.”

 

 

**'Demands of the Inquisitor'**

 

“Hissrad! We need you!”

_Impossible…_

But Arenno’s heart sank as the doors parted, as the approaching silhouette resolved into the hulking Qunari who had once introduced himself with a smile on a storm-wracked beach. The Iron Bull hefted the shining great-hammer taken from the darkness beneath the Deep Roads,

“Nothing personal… _bas_.” The stillness lasted less than a second. The Inquisitor’s attack came so fast he was merely a blur, and a spear of force barely recognisable as a spell split the intervening air like glass. The impact shook the walls of the Darvaarad. Shards of shattered lyrium rained to the floor, Bull had been driven to his knees, gasping as his crumpled armour hung from him like tattered sails. With one smooth motion he cast it off, and it struck the floor with a clatter. Then he and the remaining Qunari charged as one.

Arenno’s response was swift and deadly; lightning slammed again and again into their ranks, blasting apart limbs, flinging Ben Hassrath against the far wall. A storm wreathed the Inquisitor as his staff spun to meet every blow sent his way. He saw Cole slide from shadow at the back of the room, sink his knives into an archer’s back, and vanish all without a trace. Arenno sent another shockwave at Iron Bull, sending his former companion crashing into the Qunari behind. He could ill afford to allow Bull to close with him now. Dorian was hurling fire at a wall of advancing shield-bearers, but his gaze was fixed upon Iron Bull, his eyes a palette of shock, anger, grief and betrayal. Cassandra swung her shield around too late, as Arenno turned his head to see the hammer coming at him. The barrier took the worst, but Sha-Brytol steel rang upon his chestplate, and overcame it. Metal ground against Arenno’s ribs, ripping skin and clutching tight.

Arenno staggered, using his staff as a prop. He coughed, and nearly screamed from the pain. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, and the Anchor seared his arm with every flash of green, growing brighter, more insistent as he grew weaker…

A snarl built in the Inquisitor’s throat, as the cornered wolf might, he hunched low under the upraised great-hammer. His free hand twitched, sensing, tugging at invisible strands. As the hammer blow fell, that hand clutched at the air and  _pulled_. The Veil parted as though it were silk, and Bull cried out in horror. Sickly, grasping hands thrust through the tear and seized the hammer, demonic faces shrieked and howled at the Qunari from the darkness of the Fade. Even one with the strength of a bull could not fight so many, and Iron Bull quickly relinquished his weapon to the Fade-spawn. His expression of terror was quickly supplanted by one of immeasurable rage; the Inquisitor had forced his greatest fear upon him, knowingly. But he did not have the chance to react.

As the first tear snapped shut, another was opening. Teeth clenched with pain and effort, Arenno summoned a relentless barrage of stone and flame to ravage the entire room. Qunari perished in quick succession, their bodies crushed, charred and warped by Rift energies. The Inquisitor ripped his ruined chestplate free and threw it aside. The pain was still there, but he could at least move again. Iron Bull stooped and snatched up a longsword, it looked minuscule in his hand.

“‘Nothing personal’, Bull?” The hoarseness of his own voice surprised Arenno,  _gods but he was tired, “_ Are you certain? Do you think Krem would have gone along with all of this? Would any of them, had they known?” The Iron Bull’s face didn’t move,  _too clever to fall for such obvious bait, damn him._

 _“_ I wouldn’t know,  _bas_ , you killed them.” Indignation surged like fire through Arenno’s veins,

“I knew what I was asking! They fought and they died, for an alliance  _you_  just betrayed!” There was pain now, of a kind not normally heard from the Inquisitor, “It was all for _nothing_!!” He leapt forward, heard the sword sing and ducked beneath it. Bull turned to follow him and the sword arced around. Green sparks erupted at their clash and Arenno felt a shiver course through his arm. Bull was fast for his size, but Arenno was still faster and his staff-blade swung upward, drawing a thin red line along Bull’s thigh. Immediately, the elf spun away, out of reach.

Not quite. A hand seized his hood and the room blurred until an approaching wall sent lights swarming across his vision. “It should have been you, on that beach,” he spat. “ _Hissrad!_ ” The sword plunged towards him, Arenno gathered the Veil about him, twisted it and stepped  _outside_ forbut an instant. Then the Veil snapped back like taut cloth, and now Arenno was behind the Qunari warrior. He reversed his staff as he spun, and the slender blade slipped beneath Bull’s arm without a whisper. The Inquisitor felt the steel pierce flesh, lung…and then the heart. Hissrad jerked with shock, the blade was dark as his fall pulled it free. Standing over the body, Arenno permitted himself a moment of melancholy, “It took Bull to make me trust a Qunari. Strange how the world sometimes feels the need to remind us how little we know.” Cassandra clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him wince, “Come, the Viddasala will pay for this.”

 

 

' **The Certainty of Punishment'**

 

Grey rain hammered down upon the pale walls of the chateau. Pointed ears twitched at the sudden chill of raindrops, straining for any sign of their quarry. Only the rush of water lingered, however, and Arenno’s brow furrowed in disquiet,

“Either we are too late, and they have already fled, or our arrival has gone unnoticed.”

“The surrounding area is just as quiet, Inquisitor,” the scout squinted at silent battlements, the Orlesian sun had not been kind to him on their journey here.

“I dislike going in there blindly, but I will not allow the House of Repose to threaten the Inquisition any longer.” Arenno hefted his staff. Dusksteel as Dagna called it, a deep grey without sheen, topped with the golden figure of Shartan standing with arms raised in triumph. “We had better make our introductions.” The elf strode towards the enormous gold-plated gates, the green of his coat an excellent camouflage amongst the leaves. There was a small hatch in the gates at eye level, for a human at least. The metal of the gate rang under a heavy blow from Arenno’s staff. For a time there was silence, until the hatch slid back and the Inquisitor saw a golden face frozen in permanent mirth,

“Who comes?” Arenno kept the head of the staff out of sight, where a translucent nimbus of power was taking form. He inclined his head briefly,

“Greetings, have you a moment to speak about our blessed Andraste?” The assassin’s expression had only enough time to change before Arenno swung the charged staff into the gate. There came a blast as though from a cannon and the gate was ripped from the stone, crashing through the crowd of assassins as it tumbled end upon end, finally groaning to a stop before the chateau proper. Arenno raised his staff high, “Forward, Inquisition!”

The House of Repose’s response was sluggish, Arenno mused as he skewered a masked figure in the neck with the staff’s blade. The hour meant most had retired, and were now scrambling to find weapons to repel the invaders. The Inquisitor whirled, his staff crackling with golden arcs, and a crescent of pure force roared the length of the vestibule. Flagstones were ripped up and riven into shards, torchlight rippled on the air warped by its passage, until the spell slammed into five assassins and turned their bones to powder. Arenno’s forward pace was measured as the House of Repose darted silently from all corners, daggers flashing, only for spears of lightning to blast their clothes to shreds and throw their charred bodies back. Those who survived fled deeper into the chateau. The lead scout, his sword bloody, saluted amidst the carnage,

“We took them completely by surprise, your Worship. No casualties.” Arenno nodded sternly, cleaning the blood from his blade in one smooth motion,

“One thing I learned from Halamshiral, Whittle, is that those who play the Game expect a battle fought with spies, anonymous letters and clandestine meetings, all that cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Direct action throws them off balance.” Whittle sniggered,

“Sounds like Orlais to me, your Worship.” 

“Aye, the notion of me kicking in the front door and polishing the floor with their faces would never have even crossed their minds. Excellent work so far, Whittle. Have your men secure this exit, I will find the contract on Lady Montilyet myself.” Green robes rippled as the Inquisitor journeyed deeper into the chateau.

Fade-energies arced between the towering shelves of the library. In front of Arenno was the master of the House of Repose. His mask was askew, his clothes ravaged by lightning and flame. But still, he managed to appear halfway composed before the vengeful elf.

“Is this how the Inquisition usually does business, your Worship? Breaking and entering? Mass slaughter? Should I expect-”

“You had to know the consequences," Arenno's voice was silk-smooth, in the manner of a well-honed knife, "You sealed your own fate the moment you threatened her life.” The golden figure of Shartan atop his staff filled the room with the green-gold pall of the Fade, “Am I to believe that this attack came as any sort of surprise? I expected better of any rival to the Crows.” Disdain flashed across the Orlesian’s face,

“You are a crude instrum-” But the Veil parted between them, cloaking itself around the Inquisitor as he stepped  _through_ , to reappear with a flash as he slammed bodily into his opponent. The master assassin spun backwards head over heels and was buried under an avalanche of books. A hand sparking with green lightning seized his collar,

“Do you know how  _CLOSE I WAS_?!!” Arenno’s amber eyes were now two pits of green flame, “ _ONE MOMENT MORE! ONE!!_ And I would have watched your man open her throat!!” The Orlesian’s feet twitched a few inches above the floor, “You sent an assassin to my house, now I have repaid you in kind.”

“Will you pass your sentence then, Inquisitor?” Arenno’s fingers tightened around the man’s neck,

“As you wish.” The air rippled, and into the silence intruded the maddened howls of demonkind.The Orlesian’s eyes widened in horror as clawed hands grasped at him, pulling and tearing. His final cry of despair echoed around the hall until the Veil sealed it away forever.

–

Scout Whittle stood beside the Inquisitor upon a rise opposite the chateau. The air held the tang of copper, the faint tingle of residual magic. He shivered despite the heat of the night,

“Has the contract been destroyed, then, your Worship?” The Inquisitor gazed pensively at the flickering sliver of green embedded in his palm,

“It’s about to be.” Then, the stillness was rent asunder by the roar of flame. Chunks of burning stone plunged from the clouds, wreathed in Fade-mists, and fell in thunderous succession upon the chateau. Walls were riven stone by stone, towers were blasted apart. It took only a few minutes of bombardment for the entire edifice to be reduced to rubble and cinders. Whittle tried not to gape as the Inquisitor turned in stone-faced silence to march down the hill. The column of soldiers fell easily into step with Arenno at their head. Then, the elf seemed to grow sorrowful.

“Send a raven to Leliana and inform her of our success here, Whittle. Oh, and when we return to Skyhold, please report to Cullen regarding your promotion.”

“Th-thank you, your Worship, at once!” Whittle stammered. Then, hesitantly, “Something troubles you, Inquisitor?” The elf’s frown deepened,

“It was a cruel fate I meted out to the Master of Repose. When I had him in my grip I could think only of what Josephine would say, that she would counsel mercy, a fair trial. But then I remembered her scream from the other side of that door…and I couldn’t…” Arenno looked up at the flawless moon above, watching as it always had in calm indifference, and sighed, “yet nothing fills me with more dread than telling Josephine I went against her wishes.”

“I think I’d rather face the Elder One first, your Worship.” Arenno laughed weakly, causing a few sideways glances amongst the Inquisition soldiers,

“Well spoken, Whittle. We shall need all the humour we can get in the coming months, I fear.”

 

 

**'Before the Blood Cools'**

 

Amber eyes narrowed instinctively against the glare of the sun. He knew it wasn’t a real sun; its light was cold, and lent a sickly green-gold hue to the pitted stone. Arenno held up a hand to part the seething mists, hearing his boots crunch on blackened gravel and broken seashells. His quarry lay at the edge of a vast lake, trailing a hand in the ink-black water. It held the semblance of an elf, albeit one composed of crystal lit fiercely from within, bright spirit energies coruscating from its glittering skin. The spirit hummed a strange tune as he approached, turning at last to him with a coy smile,

               “Hello Arenno. Or…is it Inquisitor now?” The elf planted his staff in the gravel and sat beside the spirit,

               “Whichever you prefer. I’ve come seeking-“

               “-Insight?” The spirit trilled cheekily, “You have a great deal on your mind as of late, little Wren.” Arenno smiled at the mention of his old nickname,

               “Aye, my advisors have told me all they can. Even the witch, despite her conceit. And so I come to you with this question: What does Corypheus seek in the Arbor Wilds? Is it truly an Eluvian as Morrigan suspects?” Insight recoiled slightly, closing its radiant arms about itself, and disappointment flooded him. This happened every time he asked something he wasn’t supposed to, by Insight’s reckoning. “Please, I must know. I cannot order my forces to march through that tangle, into whatever trap Corypheus has laid, utterly blind.” Like a morning flower, Insight unfurled reluctantly,

               “If the Elder One journeys to the Wilds, he seeks only one thing. Something far more dangerous than a mere mirror.”

               “More dangerous? Is it a weapon? Knowledge? Elven magics? Tell me, please!” The lake was furrowed with ripples and Arenno caught himself, as Insight curled up once more, “Sorry, my friend, were it not important I would not press you so.” He took a deep breath, “Can I reach it before Corypheus?” The spirit gave the tiniest fraction of a nod,

               “If you make haste,” the Inquisitor hunched over in thought, staring at the water,

               “With all the allies we’ve gathered, it can be done. If Cullen marshals our forces now, they can clear the way for the Imperial Army-

               “Oh Wren, you mustn’t go!” A glowing hand wrapped around his arm, and Arenno’s shocked gaze met two points of white light, the spirit’s fear-wide eyes.

               “W-why not? I have to stop Cor-“

               “Because I know what lies there, and because I know  _you_! You’ll make the choice and you won’t even hesitate, because you’re  _you_ and because it’s  _right_ , damn you!” Insight’s outburst had shaken the elf’s composure, though not enough that he missed the tremor. The entire landscape of the Fade shivered for an instant,

               “Wait…”  _Could it be Josephine getting some water, perhaps?_  Then, with the sound of an enormous bronze bell, a nimbus of golden light exploded high above, followed by two more in quick succession.  _The west window wards…_

               “Someone’s in your room with you, Wren.” Panic seized the elf in claws of ice and he scrambled to his feet,

               “I have to go! Thank you again, Insight.” But the spirit only raised a hand in a mournful farewell, before the blighted sun expanded to overwhelm his senses. 

 – 

 Warm, soft fur enveloped him where he lay. From the waist up he was uncovered, kept warm instead by the crackling flames across the room. Smooth skin against his told him Josephine still slept peacefully, but the hairs on his neck were bristling; Insight had not lied. Whomever came to disturb his rest was a master of the art; the window had been unlatched and opened all without a sound, while soft shoes kept their footsteps muffled. If Arenno hadn’t laid pressure-wards at every possible entrance, they would likely both be choking on their own blood by now. All he needed now, however, was a distraction. It would have to be a tiny spell, the merest flicker of force, or this assassin would know they had been discovered.  _Something light but solid, easily toppled…ah, the lute! Bless Josephine for trying but I’ll never be a master musician…_

               With the smallest flick of his wrist he could manage, Arenno shot a force spell along the floor and bounced it off a pressure-ward into the lute that leant against the fireplace, which tumbled with a sharp clatter. The assassin’s head snapped around, straining to see any figure lurking in the gloom beyond the firelight. They looked back, and found themselves staring into two discs of shining amber, as a snarling, naked elf pounced from the bed. The dagger spun away across the floor as Arenno grappled with his assailant, finally gaining the upper hand he unleashed a blast of force that smashed the woman’s arm into the floor with the crack of breaking bone. Her shriek filled his ears as he flung a force lance at another pressure-ward inscribed on a wall, which started nimbus-bells exploding in the minds of every mage in Skyhold.

               Josephine sat on the edge of the bed, clutching furs about her, eyes wide with fear and outrage. Arenno’s mark flared as he grabbed the assassin by the throat and lifted her from the floor. Yet his expression seemed…horribly even. But the veneer was ever a thin one and he was  _angry_ ; the very air about him seethed. Josephine saw the scintillating white lights travelling in neat lines up his arm, what Arenno called force magic turned inward, giving him incredible strength. She also began to notice how the dancing firelight travelled up his broad back, how it played along the curve of his rear…she shook the clogging thoughts from her head, astonished at herself.

With his free hand, he ripped the black iron mask from the woman’s face and inspected it, “ _Venatori_ ,” he hissed, “I’d send you to Sister Nightingale, a name I suspect you know well, but the answers we need now are beyond what a simple cut-throat can tell. So…I don’t really have any use for you.” He walked towards the balcony door, “Your Elder One must be truly out of tricks to send an assassin here.” The Tevinter woman grimaced from the pain of her arm, but managed a defiant glare,

               “ _Two_ assassins, Inquisitor!” The cold swept him again, and Arenno spun in time to watch a lute impact a second assassin’s head with a musical ‘ _thunk!’_  The man folded up like a house of cards, and Josephine added a second hit for good measure. Arenno looked from the shattered remnants of the lute to his love, who merely shrugged,

               “You were terrible at it anyway, my love.” Then she cried out and pointed behind him. Arenno felt the flat of a Tevinter dagger skim along his collarbone as he arched his body to evade the strike. His marked hand came forward, empowered by force magic, and smashed the assassin’s nose in a flower of blood. The momentum carried her over the balcony and out of sight. Josephine hurried to cover herself as heavy footfalls were heard ascending the stairs.

A dozen Inquisition soldiers, all half-dressed yet with steel in their eyes, charged into the room with Cullen at the fore. Arenno turned, still unclothed, and Josephine stifled a laugh as each soldier fought furiously to look the Inquisitor in the face,

               “Assassins, Commander. Have your soldiers scour this fortress tower to dungeon, I want to know if we have any more rats under the floorboards.” Cullen nodded sternly,

               “At once, your Worship. Are you and the ambassador unharmed?”

               “Quite, give Solas my thanks for teaching me the pressure-wards.” The commander and his troops crowded down the stairway. Wrapped in a sleeping fur, Josephine pressed a hand against Arenno’s back,

               “Are you alright, my love? Arenno rubbed at his eyes, but turned a warm smile upon her,

               “I am,  _ma vhenan_ , though I fear I’ll be awake until the morning after this excitement.” Josephine mirrored his smile with a sly one of her own, and slid her hand up the back of his thigh and his rear, letting her fingernails drag just a little. She watched the shiver course up from his feet to his head as his lips parted briefly. Arenno’s cheeks flushed,

               “My lady ambassador, are you not at all shaken?”

               “Not as much as you seem to be. Will you be coming back to bed?” His smile grew crooked then, and he let himself be led back to the warm furs of their bed. Those amber eyes glowed like coals as he lay down before her, Josephine’s hand a firm pressure on his chest. Arenno pushed Josephine’s wine-dark hair away from her cheek as his body rose to meet hers. Josephine took his cheek in her hand and brought their lips together. Between breathless kisses, Arenno managed to murmur,

               “ _Ar lath…ma vhenan_ ,” After that, there were no more words until the dawn.

 

 

**'Of the Old World and the New'**

 

The glade was quiet but for the rush of water, carefree and pure, over the basalt columns. To Arenno’s mind, this only made the scene before him all the more unsettling. Crowding the path between the mirrors was a small horde of Qunari, weapons raised, faces contorted with…terror. All unmoving, frozen in stone as though they had never lived at all. The elf’s eyes flickered from one lifeless visage to another, as the thought that any of them might suddenly spring to life shouted down his reason.

Over the rushing brooks, he heard voices. Both were familiar, yet one he had not heard since the clash beneath the Breach, when the Orb was sundered. He quickened his pace. Their words were in the Qunari tongue, seeming wearied, almost calm. He gained the top of the slope to see the Viddasala brandish her spear, screaming in desperation, to see her join her comrades in stone despite all, without so much as a word from her quarry. Arenno hesitated then, swallowing to cure a throat gone dry, and then stepped forward. He dare not look at the statue’s face as he passed.

“I suspect you have questions.”  _Indeed_ ,  _and I shall have answers_. But all that came forth as he opened his mouth was a cry of pain. The Mark spat and flared with green arcs, the very bones in Arenno’s arm seemed to catch aflame. His muscles twitched and pulled, fit to tear themselves from his skeleton while searing cold stabbed all the way up to his jaw. On his knees Arenno saw through blurred vision a kneeling figure…and then it was gone. The pain fled as the Mark quietened, and he was able to stand. “That should give us more time.” Arenno’s staff served to keep him upright, that he might glare at Solas’ smiling face.

“Time for you to explain yourself… _Fen’Harel._ ” Solas gave only a brief chuckle,

“As perceptive as always, Inquisitor. I thought it unlikely that you could pass through the Vir Dirthara and not uncover the truth. Although I was Solas first. Fen’Harel came later, an insult from the tongues of my enemies, an exhortation from those of my friends.”

“It is all true, then? What was written there? Our world, the Fade, whole and the same?” That ancient, immortal face grew sad then,

“Once upon a time, yes. Though such a world, possessed of so many marvels, was not without a most perilous enemy.”

“The…Evanuris? The more I learned in the Vir Dirthara, the more I feared them.” The Dread Wolf’s voice grew fierce, and bitter,

“You were right to. The Evanuris were wont to visit unspeakable cruelties upon any who invoked their ire, or any who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Arenno grimaced, not from Solas’ words but from the dull undercurrent of pain that was spreading from his palm.  _Precious little time indeed_.

“Then…what of Mythal? I cannot believe she would allow such madness!” The Dread Wolf’s face darkened then, and his voice, once the example of serenity, grew thick with rage,

“She would not have, did not! She protested their excesses, refused to treat her people as playthings! And for her defiance, the Evanuris cut her down! And in so doing, they surpassed the limits of my patience.” Arenno saw in Solas’ eyes a cold malice he never expected from the elf, his trembling was not only from the pain anymore,

“Solas…what did you do?”

“I travelled to Tarasyl’an Te’las, where Skyhold now stands. I reached into the skies, pulled at the weft of the Fade and wove it into a barrier, one to imprison the Evanuris for all eternity, the only fitting punishment for those with Mythal’s blood on their hands.” Realisation brought with it a hollowness inside Arenno,

“It was you?!  _You_ created the Veil?”

“You speak as though it were merely a spell of banishing. I ripped the world in two, shattered the very fabric of Elvhenan. You saw the Vir Dirthara, what remains of it. So much of my world was dependant on the Fade, the Veil was nothing less than an apocalypse. A tragic error on my part. And one I must correct.” Arenno stopped mid-reply, and levelled a puzzling scowl at the Dread Wolf,

“And what does that involve, exactly?” Solas looked down for a moment, and his voice took on a plaintive tone,

“Inquisitor, your Dalish legends paint humans as those who stole the elves’ immortality. You were half right, for we were immortal once. But it was not Tevinter who took our immortality. It was me. I destroyed the elven people, sundered their very being, and I would see them restored. Even if…even if it means  _this_ world must die.” 

Perhaps in sorrow or repentance, Solas glanced again at the ground. His eyes flicked up a second too late to stop Arenno’s marked fist from crashing against his cheek. The Inquisitor never got the chance for another attack, for Solas quickly flooded the Mark with power. Arenno collapsed, screaming as his hand was seared in green flame. The Dread Wolf merely watched, impassive, until the glow faded again. The Inquisitor staggered upright, fury etched into every line of his face, his teeth bared in a ragged snarl,

“You! How dare you?! How  _dare_  you say that to me?! After Haven, after Adamant, Halamshiral, the Vir’abelasan, after Skyhold?! After I bled, fought, mourned and sacrificed to defeat Corypheus, you think to undo it all?! For a dead kingdom ruled by mad gods?!  _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen!_ ” Whether Solas was angered at Arenno’s words, or the bruise on his cheek, he gave no sign, only watched sadly the Inquisitor’s tirade. Arenno pointed the top of his staff at the other elf, “What difference is there now between you and Corypheus? Two relics dissatisfied with the course of history, willing to spill any amount of blood as mortar for rebuilding crumbling ruins. No! I will not have it! I will not allow you to undo what so many died to achieve! Nor lose yourself in pursuit of this madness.” Now, either from despair or the influence of the Mark, Arenno faltered,

“How can it be that one who seemed so wise could conceive something so monstrous? What is so wretched about our world that makes the horrors of the Evanuris more favourable? Have you seen nothing of us that is worth preserving?” He watched now, clutching his staff, as sorrow flooded his friend’s face, and Solas stepped forwards, took Arenno’s arm carefully while his eyes flared with power. The Inquisitor watched in strange detachment as the afflicted limb slowly disintegrated into green embers. He looked then to the old elf standing at the Eluvian’s threshold, “You will see that we are worthy, Solas, I swear it.” Solas then seemed at his most melancholy, and spoke only once more before the mirror took him,

“I would  _treasure_ the chance to be wrong again, my friend.  _Dareth shiral,_  may you live in peace, while time remains.”

\--

The Exalted Council was over. The writ of the divine lay upon the floor of that lofty chamber, where Arenno had let it fall as he declared the Inquisition no more. Now, in a shadowed chamber, he gave his final orders to his advisors.

“We cannot wrest control of the Eluvians from Solas, and I would be loath to try, but he cannot protect them all. Leliana, send your remaining agents to locate as many as can be found, if you trust they are not Solas’ disciples. Josephine, if you can arrange for them to be moved with as small a paper trail as you can manage, we can at least hinder Solas’ ability to move freely within the network.” The two nodded, but Josephine remained at his side,

“A Montilyet ship waits in Jader to bear me on to Antiva City, will you not come? Mother and Father are most excited to meet you. And Yvette, of course.” Arenno smiled warmly at the touch of her arm at his waist,

“I shan’t disappoint them,  _ma vhenan_ , and I am eager for you to show me your Antiva City. But there is one who has been waiting for me for quite some time, and to whom I promised I would return.”

\--

Wycome was recovering well from the turmoil of two years ago. The city thronged with traders and citizens alike, a bustle to which Keeper Istimaethoriel was entirely unaccustomed. Thus she sought peace in a small glade beyond the city limits, and where approaching footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Padding easily through the ferns, she saw him.  _Creators_ ,  _he looks…older._  Older, but walking with a surety where there was once shyness, though those amber eyes still glowed with a quiet resolve she recognised. Istimaethoriel inclined her head with a sly smile,

“ _Andaran atish’an, da’len._  What news have you of the Conclave?” His left hand was gone…there had been news but to see it was a brief pain in her heart. Yet Arenno smiled,

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Keeper. I fear you know already the results of that event. Of what came afterward, there is much, much more to tell…”

\--

The notice pinned to the wall where the mirror once stood read ‘ _This Eluvian confiscated by the authority of Divine Victoria. Those wishing to reclaim it are advised to contact the office of Her Perfection in Val Royeaux. We apologise for the inconvenience.’_ And the Dread Wolf could not help but smile.

 

 

**'Ard Arennon'**

 

The report was quite clear. The paper trembled as Leliana laid it gently upon the table. Cassandra sat opposite, a mask of impatience covering the fear that blazed from her, despite her efforts.

“Well?” Leliana did not answer, reaching instead for her goblet. A long gulp of mulled wine did little to assuage the terrible cold biting at her insides, but she could not withhold the answer any longer.

“It was near Qarinus. A Qunari fleet managed to make landfall on the northern coast, meaning to push south and take the city. They were challenged.”

–

A hot, dry wind tugged at loose green robes. Embers crowded, dancing, at the crest of a scorched hill. The grass curled into ash underfoot, the remnant of great gouts of magefire. Arrayed below the rise was a steel-clad horde of Qunari, brandishing spear and shield at their haggard foes. Arenno stood firm before a Tevinter phalanx, his gaze raking the enemy lines in silent condemnation. His staff stood beside him, its image of Shartan Triumphant now one the Qunari had come to respect, but the hand that clutched it was truly not a hand at all, not anymore. Dagna remained as skilled a smith as ever; the rune-inscribed cloth strips animated at his will, weaving together into a functional limb. Red silk fingers drummed absently against the staff’s handle. A party was returning up the hill, in their midst was a short figure in blue and gold.

Josephine’s face was grave as she reached the top of the hill. Watching his face fall from confident hope, to disappointment and finally quiet acceptance felt like a dagger being driven slowly into her chest.

“There will be no truce today, my love. I am sorry.” His strong arms about her shut out the world for a blessed moment,

“None could have tried harder,  _ma vhenan_ , I truly thought you had won the day for us.” The Qunari war cries battered against the barrier of calm around them, and Arenno fixed them with a hateful amber glare, “Ride hard for the city, Josephine, you’ll want no part of what’s to come.” Their heads came together, “I wish we were back in Skyhold,” he murmured, “plotting against Corypheus.” Josephine managed a wistful smile,

“It seemed a simpler time, somehow.” They kissed, tenderly, “ _Ar lath ma,_ Arenno.” His smile was broad and genuine,

“And I you. Now make haste, my love, the Qunari are coming.” One last look they shared, before fleeing hoofbeats were drowned out by the bellows of Qunari. Arenno took up his staff and lifted it high, “Legionarii! Form shieldwall!”

–

“The battle was intense,” Leliana spoke over her steepled fingers, “The shieldwall advanced steadily down the hill, while Arenno ordered his mages to commence artillery bombardment of the Qunari line. The dreadnought responded with cannon fire, Arenno managed to deflect the worst of it with barriers but the barrage gave the Qunari the opportunity they needed. Arenno’s Legionarii held the shieldwall for an hour before they were overwhelmed.”

–

Blood covered the left side of Arenno’s face. His lungs heaved in a feral roar as the staff-blade opened the throat of a Qunari shieldbearer. Screams and fire closed in about him, his Legionarii were regrouping around the last few surviving mages. A trio of Qunari rushed him, blades singing, to be smote by golden lightning. Four more charged from the left, two fell to a crushing boulder of Fade-stone. Two swords came down, leaving their red brands upon him. Yelling in pain and fury, Arenno swung the staff around. It struck the warriors with a cannon-blast, flinging their broken forms upon the charred grass. He was alone now, against five hundred Qunari. Panic crept in at the edges of his mind as he edged further and further up the hill. A flicker of movement came to late, and a thrown lance crashed against his barrier in a burst of blue light. Winded, he went to one knee, summoning the strength to blast the lance’s owner into red mist. A shot from the dreadnought put a crater at his feet and tossed the elf ten feet back, where he landed hard, ears ringing, bleeding. Every inch of him ached as Arenno struggled to his feet, watching the horde tightening their grip on the hill. To the left, right and ahead he was faced with his enemy, and his thoughts yet turned to Qarinus, waiting just beyond. Arenno spun the staff once in his hands, and called out to the unseen fabric dividing two worlds. Time for something… _dramatic_.

–

“’The air cracked as the elf raised the staff high. A rush of wind drowned out his scream as a dozen tears in the Veil appeared in the sky above. Burning stone rained down, smashing the Qunari to pieces, ripping the hillside asunder.’” Leliana felt her throat growing tight, “The dreadnought was sunk, and still the firestorm fell. I have reports that Arenno’s eyes burned bright green as his cry fuelled the gale. Then, a pillar of lightning thick as a tree struck the staff, flattened every tree a mile in every direction. My agents were there, and they found only the warped, melted remains of that staff, upright in the black earth.” Leliana let her hands fall, “Qarinus was saved. Though the price was high.” Cassandra’s voice was thick with rage and grief,

“He didn’t deserve that! He deserved better, after all he’d done! Better than a hopeless death at Qunari hands.” But her impotent rage quickly subsided, quelled by a far worse thought, “Josephine…how is she?” A tear stroked the Nightingale’s cheek,

“She will see no-one, for the moment. I learned that the Montilyets are planning a service in Wycome, that Clan Lavellan might attend. Everyone who can will be there.”

–

Istimaethoriel sat alone in a secluded courtyard, listening to the birdsong. To hear such a cheerful tune when such an emptiness clutched her was a surreal thing. She’d heard all of what happened, from the Nightingale herself, she would brook no half-truths, no rumours or hearsay, not for this. A small bird flitted down from the canopy to patter across the flagstones, her smile was sad when she saw what it was.

“Little Wren,” the bird looked her in the eye for a moment, then continued its explorations, “How bright your eyes were, how strong your little wings. Fly safely to the Beyond,  _da’len.”_ And fly it did, on whirring wings into the cold light of the sun.

-

Music flowed through the gilded halls of the Winter Palace, light and free. Soft candlelight skated across pristine marble floors, and Dorian took a luxurious gulp of wine. All was exactly as he remembered it. Beyond the ornate windows, rose petals fluttered like snow from a bright sky and he could smell the sea. Perhaps not  _exactly_ as he remembered, then. Though at the time this was a very tense moment, now Dorian considered it to be one of his fondest memories of the Inquisition. He was a marvel to the Orlesian nobles, surrounded by a fawning gaggle of the elite, there was fine food and magnificent works of art to admire. For the moment, this was a safe little shelter from the crushing sadness of the previous day.

The service had been flawless, an ordeal that had left him drained and hollow inside, but it was gratifying to see how many had come to honour the former Inquisitor. Morale within the Imperium had plummeted like a stone with the news of his fall, though the blow was softened by the salvation of Qarinus. For once, the Magisterium was united, the voice of the Lucerni louder than ever. The price had been the life of his greatest, closest friend, and suddenly the wine held no taste. Now he walked along the Hall of Heroes, admiring the great statues. He wondered idly whose dream this was, which he had come across while wandering the Fade. He’d seen Leliana earlier, in the ballroom just as before, watched Cullen trying and failing to escape his many admirers. Then, as he headed towards the gardens, he saw someone now decidedly out of place.

A blue and gold gown stroked the smooth marble in a measured, yet swift, gait. White gloved hands held one another firmly, delicately betraying the worry of their owner. Lady Josephine had strayed from her place beside her sister, and was roaming the corridors alone. She passed Dorian at speed, not sparing him a glance.

“The dream is hers, Dorian Pavus.” Surprise shot through him like a bolt of lightning, and he spun to face a roaring hearth. A familiar figure stood gazing into the flames. The wine cup crashed to the floor as the Tevinter rushed to the newcomer, his voice soaring with elation,

“My dear friend! You’re…you’re here!”  _Could it be? The idea was an absurd one, an impossibility… “_ How? At Qarinus…dozens saw you..saw you perish.” Turning, the figure shook its head sadly,

“I am sorry, Lord Pavus, I am not Arenno.” The magister recoiled, eyes narrowing. The face was unmistakable, the clothes were exactly as he remembered,

“You’re a spirit, then, taking his form. Like the Divine at Adamant! A little too soon, don’t you think?” The being shook his head once again,

“I did not watch his end from beyond the Veil, Dorian Pavus. When Arenno died, I…became. There is no question you could ask that I have not already asked of myself. But I do possess his memories, each moment he lived from first to last.” Incredulity gave way to intellectual curiosity,

“I’ve never heard of such a thing before, though you w…he was killed by an obscene amount of Rift energies. It is possible Arenno was half in, half out of the Fade when he died. Yet you claim you are not Arenno?” The being wearing Arenno’s face stepped towards Dorian, but mid-stride its form was suddenly consumed by bright orange flames, giving way to blinding golden light. Once his eyes adjusted, Dorian saw instead a luminescent recreation of his friend in golden crystal, every hair was a filament of amber fire, his shining clothes moved as though underwater. Eyes like miniature suns shone defiant even of the light around them,

“I am Fortitude,” it intoned in echoing cadence, “spirit of bravery and conviction. I am his defining essence, the purest expression of his being. I honour him through existence. And I am your friend, Dorian Pavus, as much as was he.” The spirit’s hand upon his arm was warm, like stone baked by the sun. Dorian’s chest felt bound by iron shackles,

“Thank you.” A deep breath served to clear his mind, “But why did you come here, to this place?” Fortitude grew dimmer, its eyes on the carpet,

“This was a place he held dear. Where the Inquisition seized a great triumph. And where Arenno met his love.” The pair looked down the corridor in time to see a figure in blue and gold hurry past,

“That’s not true, they met much earlier than that, in Haven.” The spirit’s reply was swift,

“He did not love her, then, Dorian. No, this is where he found his love for Josephine.” Then, Fortitude peered around the room, out into the gardens beyond, “But he is not here. This dream is hers, why is he not here?” Dorian too could not recall seeing Arenno among the guests,

“You’re right, Josephine dreamt this place into being, why would she leave him out of it? She’s clearly trying to find him.”

“He should be here,” the spirit said hotly, “He was here before. They danced, and she was  _happy_. She cried before she came here tonight.” Fortitude’s face changed to one of fierce resolve, one that Dorian recognised immediately. Then came a flash of golden light, and Dorian was alone.

 _No, no, no this wasn’t right_ , Josephine thought as she pushed past a group of nobles. Someone was missing, not where they should be, someone…she cursed inside her mind, before quickly chiding herself. All this chatter was clouding her thoughts, perhaps a little cool evening air would soothe her spirits. She excused herself from the ballroom and stepped out onto the balcony. The revels of the ball faded away, replaced by the stillness of the night. She could not perceive the flash of gold behind her, but what came next she heard clearer than anything else,

“Stepped out for some air as well, my lady?” She spun and he was there, leaning against the wall and wearing an Inquisition uniform and his best crooked smile. Josephine made to leap at him, but remembered where they were and took a moment to compose herself,

“You are light on your feet, my lord, I have looked for you across the entire palace, it seems.” Arenno grinned and produced two full glasses,

“I was getting punch, it’s the last few cups worth so enjoy it.” She took the glass graciously, “you truly are a gentleman, Inquisitor.” He laughed,  _Andraste how she loved his laugh_ , and they clinked glasses.

Soon after, Arenno set down his glass and stood, offering a hand to his lady,

“Will you dance with me,  _ma vhenan_?” And though there was no band, music yet played. Josephine never felt the chill of nighttime as they turned gently upon the tiles, never heard the rambling of the comtes and comtesses,

“I thought you didn’t like dancing, my love,” Another smile, brightening his eyes,

“It could never be a chore to dance with such a gracious and engaging woman.” She sighed and laid her head upon his chest, 

“I could dance like this for hours, let Cassandra deal with the nobles for a change.” Arenno laughed again,

“Only if you wanted to undo all of tonight’s hard work in the space of ten minutes, of course.” Josephine giggled into his neck,

“I know! She’s terrible at it,” Then suddenly her hands tightened around him, “ _I miss you!”_ It was just a whisper, yet the words screamed through the spirit like dragon-fire. Fortitude said nothing, merely wrapped his arms about her, pulling her close. From the doorway, Dorian saw the Lady Montilyet, enveloped by a brilliantly glowing figure in a fierce embrace, tears coursing freely down his cheeks. 

She could not tell how long they stayed that way, but finally Josephine stood back. Arenno kissed her cheek,

“You are brave, my lady, and you will endure. As the stream flows around an obstructing stone, so will you find calm waters again.” Then he cocked his head to one side, “They’re playing a waltz,  _ma vhenan_ , may I have this dance with you?” A small smile bloomed upon her face, and Josephine took his hand in hers again.

 

 

**'Master of His Domain'**

 

There came an abrupt shift in the fabric, in the music, of the Fade. The sickly sun, itself nothing but a mirage, instead blazed white and pure upon the slick stone. The air, once fouled by the Blight, did not cling to his throat as it had. The man clad in the wolf’s pelt looked up to the castle on the peak, at the same time both gladdened and mystified by its unspoiled countenance. The walls were not of grey stone but of shining marble, its roofs were instead glittering domes of glass. 

 _Tarasylan Te’las. Exactly as it once was_.

Almost. The banners that tumbled from its pristine walls were red, with a familiar symbol emblazoned in gold upon them. The eye, resting upon its sunburst and pierced from above by a sword, stared accusingly down at him. Solas’ brow furrowed, and he began a swift march up towards its beckoning gate. Even from here, he heard the dance of bow upon strings, a tune that stirred memories of masks and wine.

Spirits thronged the courtyard as he entered. Every form and colour he knew turned their shining gaze upon the newcomer. Spirits of Mercy, of Duty, of Wisdom, Honour, Justice, Compassion, Courage, Faith…more and more all regarding him with…what?  _Suspicion? Perhaps even hostility?_ An unfamiliar chill flickered down Solas’ spine. He had to get to the bottom of this. The incandescent crowd watched in silence as he ascended the steps to the throne room. The vaulted ceiling held no shadows here, for the brilliant sun shone freely through glass panes upon the hall below. Still more spirits gathered, watching, as he strode towards the throne.

It too was uncomfortably familiar. Red, straight-backed and adorned with dull grey spikes, a contrast to the opalescent grandeur of the place. Sitting upon it…Solas stopped abruptly, and the figure rose. Golden light blazed from it, every ripple of cloth sent new reflections dancing upon the marble, but it was the eyes that shone brightest. But as he stood, for a moment transfixed, the light began to falter. Coiling inwards like a folding flower, until the figure resembled most the being it imitated. Now the only light came from its shifting  _vallaslin_ , and the amber eyes scowling down at him.

“Solas.” The voice echoed like a bronze bell throughout the hall, and questions piled upon one another in his mind.

“Who are you? What is this?” The figure took up a staff, one more thing Solas begrudgingly recognised,

“I am the Inquisitor.” Disbelief was quickly followed by indignation,  _this thing has no right, none, to bear that title!_

 _“_ No. The Inquisitor is dead, slain by those Qunari beasts! What manner of spirit are you?”

“His end was my beginning. I am Fortitude, one who will take up his mantle and carry on his work. The work of the Inquisition.” The spirit let the blade of its staff touch the floor with force enough just to be noticeable, and its echoing voice grew low and fierce, “Arenno opposed you, Solas. And now so do I. So do  _we.”_ Its staff roved the hall, indicating the throng of spirits that now surrounded them. A surge of injured pride welled up in the Dread Wolf’s breast,

“You leashed these spirits to this pantomime? This farce?”

“Do not play the righteous spirit-advocate here,  _Dread Wolf,_ the destruction of the Veil will be the end of two worlds. Think you that the purity of we spirits can survive crashing headlong into the wreckage of the immutable realm? As Thedas crumbles into ash, we will be blown away in the wind. Arenno loved the spirits as you do, and so every second you spend in our domain, the new Inquisition will hound your every step, to the gates of the Black City itself if need be.” The final syllables flitted between the pillars, disturbing the gossamer banners that hung there. Solas looked hard into the spirit’s golden gaze,

 “No. I am sorry, but this charade must be brought to an end. Please, Fortitude, do not force these spirits into hopeless battle, each is too precious to lose.” The spirit stepped down from the throne, and the Staff of Shartan Triumphant blazed with green-gold flame,

“Arenno never once asked another to do in his place what he would not. If there is to be a battle, Dread Wolf, I alone will match my power to yours.” Solas took a step back, even with Mythal’s power thrumming through his being, memories arose that leeched at his resolve. Arenno, the true Arenno, had been a vicious, relentless combatant. More so than any mage should be.  _Thirty seconds_. He still had that advantage,  _thirty seconds and I will know every trick Fortitude possesses_. Even so, better to end this swiftly. Solas summoned a crackling torrent of flame and hurled it towards Fortitude, feeling the weft of the Fade shiver before its power, and he smiled.

The Inquisitor stepped lightly to one side and spun his staff into a blur. A gust of air swept into the fire-blast and snuffed it to smoke. A force lance roared the length of the hall to shatter against the Dread Wolf’s barrier. The Inquisitor maintained an even stride towards his foe. Solas retaliated, twisting the forest of banners into serpents of silk, who struck and snared the spirit’s arms. Veilfire bloomed bright and the cloth collapsed into cinders, and the Inquisitor was free the merest moment before another blast of flame thundered towards them. There came a flash of green-gold light and the spirit stepped  _through_ , feeling the Veil part like a stream around them, to reappear with their armoured fist crashing against Solas’ cheek.

Rage boiled within Solas’ chest,  _this thing truly does know Arenno’s tricks, it seems_. He swung his staff with both hands and it struck the spirit’s chest with a cannon blast, flinging them against a column. Fade-lightning stabbed from above, impacting Solas’ barrier and he was forced backwards. The whistle of wind upon steel came too late, the spirit had thrown its staff like a spear and the blade smashed through the Dread Wolf’s barrier to stop a hair’s breadth from his chest. Solas dispelled his barrier and threw the staff aside,

“Enough!” The bruise on his cheek stung far worse than any spell the spirit could have thrown, “What is it you desire?” Fortitude summoned its staff, and smote the column above Solas’ head with lightning,

“The fight is not finished until I say, Dread Wolf! Not until you are out of my castle!”  _My castle_ , Solas fought down a petty retort, and took up his staff.  _I have seen all I need to see._ He needed to think. Acting with haste might do more damage than good. The spirit leapt high, staff poised again like a spear. Solas looked sadly on the face of his fallen friend, now wearing a hostile grimace,

“Until our next meeting, Inquisitor.” The point of the staff struck the marble floor in a shower of sparks. Fortitude straightened, then walked back to the throne and resumed their seat. Thoughts raced through the fractals of light within its head. A spirit of Faith stood beside them,

“A test, no doubt. The Wolf seeks to learn his prey’s strengths, and weaknesses.” Fortitude traced their jaw with one finger,

“Quite. It’s to be hoped that Solas did not suspect my true nature to be anything more than a spirit taking Arenno’s form, instead of one possessed of all his memories. Arenno knew how he meant to cast Solas down and now so do I. And we must proceed now with all haste,” the hall trembled now from approaching footfalls. The air soured as a shadow appeared in the archway, “Arenno was well used to finding allies in unlikely places, when the stakes were high enough.” Fortitude rose, one hand extended. A multitude of eyes gleamed beneath twisting horns as the pride demon inclined its head. Its guttural voice emboldened the shadows,

“Inquisitor.”


End file.
